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In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green ; and, pour'd round all,
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste, -
Are but the solemn declarations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings
Of morning-and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.---
So shalt thou rest-and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His fav’rite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,-
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the grey-headed man,-
Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
Só live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain’d and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Is not that beautiful? Read it again—it will bear repetition.

THE MARRIAGE VOW.

This very beautiful little poem is extracted from one of the American Magazines, where it was published anonymously. We copied it many years ago, and it is well worth preserving in this collection.

SPEAK it not lightly-'tis a holy thing,

A bond enduring through long distant years,
When joy o'er thine abode is hovering,

Or when thine eye is wet with bitterest tears,
Recorded by an angel's pen on high,
And must be question'd in eternity!
Speak it not lightly !-though the young and gay,

Are thronging round thee now with tones of mirth,
Let not the holy promise of to-day

Fade like the clouds that with the morn have birth;
But ever bright and sacred may it be,
Stored in the treasure-cell of memory.
Life will not prove all sunshine-there will come

Dark hours for all—Oh, will ye, when the night
Of sorrow gathers thickly round your home,

Love, as ye did in times when calm and bright
Seem'd the sure path ye trod, untouch'd by care,
And deem'd the future, like the present, fair ?
Eyes that now beam with health may yet grow dim,

And cheeks of rose forget their early glow;
Languor and pain assail each active limb,

And lay, perchance, some worshipp'd beauty low.
Then will ye gaze upon the alter'd brow,
And love as fondly, faithfully, as now?
Should Fortune frown on your defenceless head,

Should storms o'ertake your bark on life's dark sea,
Fierce tempests rend the sail so gaily spread

When Hope her syren strain sang joyously,
Will

ye

look up, though clouds your sky o'ercast, And

say, TOGETHER we will bide the blast ? Age with its silv'ry locks comes stealing on,

And brings the tottering step, the furrow'd cheek,
The eye from which each lustrous gleam hath gone,

And the pale lip, with accents low and weak.
Will ye then think upon your life's gay prime,
And, smiling, bid Love triumph over Time ?

Speak it not lightly! oh! beware, beware !

'Tis no vain promise, no unmeaning word;
Lo! men and angels list the faith ye swear,

And by the High and Holy One 'tis heard.
Oh, then kneel humbly at His altar now,
And pray for strength to keep the marriage vow!

THE CHRISTIAN GRACES.

The poetry that springs from a mind possessed by the purest piety is JAMES MONTGOMERY's. This predominant character breathes in every line that falls from his pen, and while it aids his poetical inspirations, it endears him in an especial manner to his readers, who cannot fail to feel for him as a dear friend, or to love as much as they admire the virtue of which his poems are only the natural language. Here is a delightful little piece, the authorship of which would have been instantly discovered, though the name had not been affixed. No living poet but he could have composed these verses.

Faith, Hope, and Charity,—these three,
Yet is the greatest, Charity :
Father of Lights! these gifts impart,
To mine and every human heart.
Faith, that in prayer can never fail;
Hope, that o'er doubting must prevail;
And Charity, whose name above
Is God's own name,—for God is Love.
The morning star is lost in light;
Faith vanishes at perfect sight;
The rainbow passes with the storm,
And Hope with sorrow's fading form.
But Charity, serene, sublime,
Unlimited by death or time,
Like the blue sky's all-bounding space,
Holds heaven and earth in one embrace.

FLOWERS.

The quaintness of the metre in which this poem is written will, we fear, rather prejudice the reader against it, and deter many a one from proceeding further than the first stanza. We pray them not to heed this oddity, but to go through it with care, not once, but twice, and mark the many beauties with which it abounds. It is the production of an American poet, man eininent in other walks, Professor LONG

It is somewhat strange that the spirit of poetry, which seems to be hastening to extinguishment in England, should be rapidly advancing in power and splendour in the New World on the other side of the Atlantic. America promises to repay with interest all that she has borrowed of us.

FELLOW.

SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,

One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he call’d the flowers, so blue and golden,

Stars that in earth's firmament do shine.

Stars they are wherein we read our history,

As astrologers and seers of eld :
Yet not wrapp'd about with awful mystery,

Like the burning stars which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,

God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowrets under us

Stands the revelation of His love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,

Written all over this great world of ours,
Making evident our own creation

In these stars of earth,—these golden flowers.

And the poet, faithful and far-seeing,

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part
Of the self-same universal being

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.
Gorgeous flowrets in the sunlight shining,

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves with soft and silver lining,

Buds that open only to decay:

Brilliant hopes all woven in gorgeous tissues,

Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires with most uncertain issues,

Tender wishes blossoming at night : These in flowers and men are more than seeming;

Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,

Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing,

Some like stars to tell us spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,

Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn. Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,

And in Summer's green emblazon'd field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,

In the centre of his brazen shield.

Not alone in meadow and green alleys,

On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequester'd pools in woodland valleys,

Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink ; Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone;
But in old

cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes carved in stone ;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the past unto the present,

Tell us of the ancient graves of flowers.

In all places, then, and in all seasons,

Flowers expand their light and sun-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,

How akin they are to human things. And with child-like, credulous affection,

We behold their tender buds expand ; Emblems of our own great resurrection,

Emblems of the bright and better land.

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